A Childlike Happiness
by poeticmaiden
Summary: An AU to EMPT in which Holmes returns to find that Watson has children. Written for Watson's Woes.


**This story was written partially in response to the Watson's Woes weekly writing prompt _surprise_, but before then I'd had it spinning in my head for quite some time. This is very much an AU story, in which I stretch or disregard certain elements of the canon so that at the time of Holmes's return from the Hiatus, Mary Watson is still alive, and she and Watson have two children. I just had a vision of Watson playing with his kids that I could not get out of my head. So - enjoy! **

* * *

Leaves crunched pleasantly under my feet as I made my way down the country lane, each miniature snap seeming to exclaim triumphantly of the same joy that I felt. These were not the sands of the Middle East, nor the snows of Tibet -- these were the golden leaves of what could only be England in the fall. England! Even my mind, unused to forming purely sentimental attachments, could not help but rejoice at the sound of the name -- England, my England, homeland!

My being here at the moment was a testament to the fact that I had more than once broken my aforementioned rule about attachments. My brother had objected most strongly that going all the way out to the country to fetch a certain friend for sentimental reasons was not the practical thing to do, considering the precarious situation in which I had left the case with Moran, but I would not hear of acting otherwise.

This denouement could not be complete without my Boswell.

Ah, that cottage with the high stone wall around it must be the one the villager had spoken of! I paused for the briefest of moments to analyze the place, which possessed that perfect blend of quaintness and a wild sense of the poetic to appeal to Watson's hopelessly romantic taste, before walking on again, quickening my pace now that my goal was in sight.

My mind raced, trying to come up with some way I could surprise him -- after all, a resurrection does not happen every day, and my dramatic side demanded that I use the natural oddity of the situation to my advantage. I had had a perfect scheme all planned out beforehand of how I would appear in his consulting room in disguise and give him the shock of his life, but that was before I had actually set foot in London and discovered that he was on holiday in the country with his family. So, not to be deterred, I had taken the next train out here, hoping that he would eventually be able to forgive me for dragging him out of what was supposed to be an idyllic time of relaxation.

Of course, that wasn't exactly all he would have to forgive me for, was it? Would he really wish to continue being my accomplice after finding out that I had so heartlessly deceived him?

Logic calmly told my heart that I had no control whatsoever over the future, and that whatever the outcome, I must risk it anyways.

I neared the gate in the stone wall and stopped, hearing sounds of laughter coming from within the enclosure. With a thrill that I wasn't entirely prepared for, I recognized the first voice: deep and strong, yet unique in its exhilaration, every note of it belonging only to my Watson. And the other two voices -- why, what else could they be but children's voices, high and ringing, pure in their enjoyment of the world?

Children?

Mycroft had said 'family' -- I suppose I should have listened more closely, but my excitement had been too great, and I had thought only of seeing his startled face when he discovered that I had not really perished at Reichenbach. I had not thought about it, had not even considered the possibility.

Children.

The gate leading into the courtyard had been left wide open. I crept to the edge, not wanting to risk giving myself away too early, and cautiously peeked around the stone pillar.

I saw him -- not as I had thought I would see him, but radically different -- and in a way, so much better, I decided rather to my shock. Another Watson, one that I had supposed could exist, but one that I had never seen with my own eyes.

He stood in the middle of the grassy lawn, bereft of jacket, his hair askew. On his shoulders perched a little boy with the same merry hazel eyes, and the same gleeful smile as he laughed to his heart's content. A small girl with flying golden curls pranced about his feet, giggling and staring up at him with a look of positive adoration.

And he.... he was craning his neck to look up into the face of the little boy, his face almost blinding with the brilliance of his grin. "Again, daddy!" cried the boy, and with a laugh Watson began spinning around, gripping the legs of the toddler tightly as the child's arms flailed outward, a laugh of delight escaping them both at the sheer pleasure of it.

I stared, unable to fully understand the strange mixture of emotions that ran through my chest in quick succession. If it had been anyone else I would have passed the little scene by without giving it a second thought -- but it was Watson, my Watson, although as I thought the words to myself I didn't know if I felt justified in calling him mine anymore. And I had never seen him so completely.... happy.

I remembered only just in time that my head was still sticking out in the open, and pulled it back behind the pillar before I was spotted. Bewildered, I leaned against the wall, wondering what on earth I should do now. Logic, it seemed, had been frightened away by the sight of so much pure emotion, and no matter how loudly I called I couldn't get it back.

What right had I to disturb such happiness? To come barging in unannounced and drag him back into our old life? It was true that I had seen the light of adventure in his eyes when we were on a case together, diving into the thick of danger but always coming safely back out again -- but it had never made him happy like he was happy now.

So absorbed was I in my thoughts that I did not notice that the laughter had lessened in strength and pitch. I suppose that goes part way in explaining why I was completely surprised to hear a child's voice interrupt my thoughts.

"Who're you?"

I looked up to see the golden-haired girl standing in front of me, looking up at me curiously.

I tried to think of some answer that would make sense to her, but fortunately she seemed to forget about the question and instead put her tiny finger to her lips.

"Shhh! My daddy's 'it', and if he hears us, he'll know where we are."

It took my bewildered mind a moment to comprehend that they were in the middle of a children's game -- tag.

I knelt on the ground. "What is your name, child?" I asked in a low voice, calling upon all my (limited) powers of gentleness and patience.

The girl looked around to make sure no one was near and then leaned towards me and whispered, in a very official tone, "Patience Marie Watson."

From behind the wall, I could hear Watson counting. "…Five... Six.... Seven…"

I was suddenly struck by a thought that, compared to the horrible muddle that existed between my ears at the moment, seemed brilliant. "Can I play too?" queried, trying to ignore the fact that I what I was doing was utterly ridiculous.

Patience's face lighted up. "Yes!" she whispered. "I won't tell daddy where you are! But he'll be done counting soon, so you'd better find a place to hide."

I nodded conspiratorially to her and then dashed silently through the gate, across the yard and behind a tree, settling myself into place just in time before Watson announced that the counting had ended, and that he was going to find those hiding whether they were prepared for that eventuality or not.

A minute of tense waiting passed, during which the relative silence was broken only by Watson musing out loud where on earth his two mischievous children could have possibly disappeared to.

"Aha! I see you, Sherlock!"

Sherlock! A shock of electric passed through me, and I believe it took me a full second (which, as concerns my brain, is quite a long time) to realize that he was not at all referring to me. Sherlock.... that must be his little boy, his son. He had named his son after me.

The boy replied with a high-pitched cry of 'found me!' that probably would have sent any female into a fit of hysterics over how adorable he was. I, of course, was not affected by it.

"Hmm… now where is Patience?" Watson wondered in a bemused manner that was entirely put-on. However, it seemed to fool little Sherlock well enough, for as I peeked out from behind the tree I saw him pull a finger out of his mouth and point to the open gate. Watson took the cue and began walking toward the gate, but before he could get there the little girl sprang out of hiding, singing, "Here I am!"

Watson laughed. "Is it your turn now?"

Patience shook her head. "No, daddy, you still have to find the man with the funny hat!"

Funny hat? I did _not _have a funny hat! It was a perfectly respectable hat!

"The man with the funny hat?" Watson asked, this time genuinely confused.

"Yes," Patience said, in a know-it-all tone. "He asked if he could play with us, and I told him he could. You have to find him first."

"All right," her father said indulgently. "I'll go find the man with the funny hat." He turned and began surveying the nearby bushes. From the glances I snuck at him, I could tell that he was only pretended to search. I swallowed the laugh that rose to my throat as I comprehended his thought processes – he obviously considered 'the man with the funny hat' to be a figment of his daughter's overactive imagination.

"I'm sorry, princess," he said after a minute, turning back to his child and resting an affectionate hand on her head. "But I think the man with the funny hat can only be seen by children."

Patience shook her head firmly. "Daddy, you weren't looking hard enough," she accused. "He's very good at hiding."

The doctor sighed. "Will you help me find him?"

"He's over there!"

I could see in my mind's eye a small hand raised, finger extended to reveal my location. Children can be _such _traitors at times.

I heard his footsteps approaching my tree, and my whole body tensed in anticipation. He walked passed the tree, not noticing me, and inspected the corner of the lawn before he turned around…

…. And stopped, his face suddenly going as white as the curtains hanging in the windows of the house behind us.

I raised an eyebrow, almost unable to contain my mirth. "Watson, I believe that is the first time I've heard anyone claim that I'm invisible."

His mouth fell open in complete shock. I waited for him to say something, but before he could his eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

This was not quite what I had expected. I leaped to where he lay on the ground and dragged him over to a sitting position, leaning him against the trunk of the tree. I patted his face and spoke his name, trying to get him to wake up, but he persisted in being unconscious.

"You gave daddy a bad fright!" a small voice accused.

I looked up to see Patience standing over me, looking more than a little annoyed. However, I did not have any time to care about what she thought about this whole situation.

"Child, go and get your mother. Tell her to come quickly."

As I had suspected, once the child was given orders she forgot that she was angry with me, and ran off to do my bidding.

I turned back to my still-unconscious Boswell, a half-smile rising unbidden to my lips as I recalled that he had once told me that he had never fainted in his life. Unless I had missed something in the years I was gone, I believe the honor of the first occurrence belonged entirely to me.

* * *

Memories are strange things. It often seems that there is no rhyme or reason to when or how they surface. I could not explain, even to myself, why on this day of all days I should be thinking of my husband's dead friend and the life that seemed too soon snuffed out. And how cruel, too, that the mind can be when memory is aroused! Why could I almost imagine that I could hear the man's voice, coming from somewhere outside?

Yes, I cared that he was gone, not just for John's sake, but for my own. Mr. Sherlock Holmes had been responsible for taking away my fear, and in return he had given me the greatest gift of all – my John, the best and most honorable man I have ever known. Why shouldn't I miss him? Didn't I owe him everything?

I felt a small tug on my skirt and looked down to find Sherlock, my baby and the departed man's namesake, standing by my side and looking up at me very intently.

I sighed, pulling my hands out of the cupboard and turning to him. "What is it, Sherlock?"

His eyes were wide with leftover amazement. He removed his sticky fingers from his mouth before speaking. "Mama, there's a man in the yard!"

"A man?" I asked.

He nodded seriously. "He made daddy fall over."

My heart skipped a beat, and then raced ahead at twice its normal rate. "Fall over?"

He nodded again.

I heard the front door slam as Patience burst in, calling frantically for me. Hastily I scooped Sherlock up into my arms and ran with him to the doorway. If John had been hurt by an attacker…

My first glimpse seemed to confirm my suspicions, for at the far end of the lawn I saw my husband half-sitting, half-lying against a tree, a strange man in a long gray coat bending over him. My heart lodged itself in my throat, and I was about to cry out for help when a familiar voice drifted to me across the lawn.

"… Come now, Watson old fellow…"

No. It couldn't be.

I set my child down and descended the steps in a daze. The man turned toward me, hearing my footsteps, and his face softened in relief.

It _was _him.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or to fall down in a dead faint as my husband had done, so overwhelmed was I by the onslaught of emotion. However, I had time to express none of them, for Sherlock Holmes obviously had more important things on his mind than a reunion with a former client.

"Ah, Mrs. Watson, forgive my intrusion – will you kindly fetch some brandy? I believe I have had an adverse effect on your husband."

For a moment I couldn't believe my ears. Then the spell broke, and I found myself laughing and nearly singing in my joy:

"Willingly, Mr. Holmes!"

I dashed back inside, found the brandy and managed to get some of it into a glass, and then all but ran back outside, delivering the glass to Mr. Sherlock Holmes with as much glee and pride as if I was once again a schoolgirl delivering an apple to her teacher.

He didn't pause to acknowledge my jubilation, but in a swift motion raised the glass to John's lips and poured a little of the liquid down his throat. He gave a small cough and came to, looking with bleary eyes at the man kneeling next to him as if he believed himself still in a dream. Then his eyes focused, a look of the greatest bewilderment taking over his face.

"A thousand apologies, my dear Watson," Holmes murmured. "I had no idea that you would be so affected."

"I…." John seemed to be unable to think of any other word to say. He ran his eyes up and down the lean form of Mr. Holmes, taking in every detail, reassuring himself, still wondering if he dared to believe.

Then the sunshine burst forth and he shouted in laughter, grasping Holmes firmly by the shoulder.

"Man with a funny hat indeed! _Holmes_! I can scarcely believe my eyes!"

A grin passed spasmodically over the face of Sherlock Holmes, and he joined in the laughter. I found myself laughing also – too strongly to figure out where the taste of saltwater in my mouth was coming from – when the laughter was interrupted by a very solemn little voice:

"I told you he was good at hiding."

Patience, apparently, did not see anything at all funny about her daddy toppling over. She stood with her arms folded across her little chest, looking at us as if we had all gone mad.

The laughter burst out again all the louder, and I felt my heart grow wings and fly away. Miracles may be rare occurrences, but I had before me proof that they had not vanished from the world altogether. The one piece that had been missing from my John's life for these past years had fallen back into place again, though it had seemed that it had been forever snatched out of his reach.

I didn't think I had ever been so happy.

And, judging from the look on John's face, neither had he.


End file.
